


Mexican Graffiti

by markymark261



Series: Gamut [2]
Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markymark261/pseuds/markymark261
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrea Rojas encounters an unexpected exhibit at an art gallery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mexican Graffiti

It was a hot day in Mexico City, and Andrea Rojas was woken up by the loud purring of her black cat, Zapata.

She pushed back her duvet to discover she was still wearing her black-and-green costume; she must have teleported straight into bed the night before. Looking over at the nearest bedpost, she saw her Acrata mask's white eyes staring back at her. She also noticed Zapata's paws were bright red - looked like that spray can she'd been using to do her graffiti was leaking. Maybe she should just give up on leaving messages behind after apprehending villains, they were becoming ever more elaborate and were now eating into her sleeping hours; she wondered if anybody even read them anyway.

She stretched in her bed, her muscles still aching from her nightly patrol. That's the way it sometimes was fighting organized crime, most nights the crime was actually highly disorganized, with low-life thugs with crowbars or machetes no match against her skill with martial arts, but every so often the bad guys would be using mystical items or maybe the latest villainous gadgets, like those thugs from last night with their enchanted exo-skeletons.

Ignoring the complaints of her bruised body, she crawled out of bed, changed into something less heroic, and fed her cat and then herself some breakfast. Once her nutritional requirements were taken care of, she cranked The Ramones up to annoy-the-neighbors volume and started her strenuous high-intensity morning workout.

It was sure tough being a superheroine. And this was supposed to be Sunday, a day of rest, but not for her. She looked up at the clock, it was almost noon. She had to be at the art gallery, meeting her father, for some exhibit by that American photojournalist, Jimmy Olsen, famous for his Superman photographs. She wanted to go back to bed, but she figured she had to show solidarity with her fellow redhead, plus she didn't want to let down her father.

* * *

She travelled on the STC Metro - she wished she could teleport instead, but that would have felt like an abuse of her powers - and arrived at the art gallery ten minutes late to meet her father, though that was early by her standards.

"So, Papito, is it all going to be photos of Superhombre?" she asked.

"On the contrary," replied her father. "It appears Mr. Olsen spent his vacation here in Mexico City."

"Great, holiday snaps. As if I haven't seen enough of the local color."

"You won't have seen this," her father reassured her. "Guess what? The exhibit's called Acrata!"

Andrea felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. At first, she thought he'd asked "Guess what the exhibit's called, Acrata?", but then she realized the inflection was wrong. "Acrata?" she finally managed to echo, pretending it was a name she'd never encountered, rather than one she'd adopted.

"You know, that super-heroine, one of _Los Grandes Nombres_."

She looked at him in confusion. An exhibit about her? Don't say this Olsen guy had been stalking her.

And then she walked in and saw that he hadn't been following her, just her aftermath, as she saw photo after photo of the graffiti she'd left behind, her work all gathered together. In the background, she heard music by a local rock band who'd named themselves after her.

Her mouth was agape. Her collections of quotations, her critiques of authority, had now been given a wider audience, but rather than being anti-authority, it seemed that it had now been absorbed into the mainstream. She didn't know whether to be happy or sad. Ah, who was she fooling? "Cool," she finally said, a big smile on her face.

"You're just impressed by the colors," said her academic father. "Let me explain the meaning behind them, you could learn something from this Acrata woman."

Andrea nodded. "Please tell me, father. I'd be fascinated."

And so her father took her on a guided tour of her works, and she was pleased that, on the whole, he understood the meaning behind them, although the fact that he made so much of "Viva Zapata" amused her greatly; she'd just done that one out of desperation because it had been her cat's birthday that day.

She smiled as she saw so much of her work gathered into one place, and the message it gave out. It had all been worthwhile after all.

"This is a terrific exhibit, so thought-provoking," said her father.

Andrea felt full of pride.

"And there's the person responsible," he added, making a beeline towards the redheaded Daily Planet photojournalist.

Andrea Rojas rolled her eyes; sometimes she wished she could share her secret with her father. Then her mind completely forgot about her wishes, as she heard a commotion outside, punctuated by the firing of assault rifles.

Andrea Rojas slipped into the shadows and was gone, only for Acrata to appear from another shadow across the room, as a squad of techno-terrorists came pouring into the room. It looked like organized crime had heard about Acrata's big day, and decided to ruin it. So far, she'd only heard them fire their rifles into the air, nobody had been shot yet, and she intended for it to stay that way.

She looked at the photo of her graffiti behind the terrorists; it contained a quote from Alan Moore: "Behind this mask there is more than just flesh. Beneath this mask there is an idea... and ideas are bulletproof." She smiled as she once more disappeared into the shadows.

As her father looked on in horror and the photographer just fiddled with his wristwatch, Acrata took advantage of the terrorist's shadows, porting in and out of them, cutting down their owners with her swift efficient blows. She loved it when she was in full flow, showing off her fighting prowess.

Within seconds, the villains were out cold. Time for her to deliver her trademark quotation, the situation demanded it. She looked at the Daily Planet photographer, though he seemed to be looking in the distance, through the window behind her, a forced smile on his face. She turned but saw nothing there, just some disturbed-looking pigeons. She turned back to him, his attention now fully on her. "In the words of the reporter Lois Lane," she began, "Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive," she ran towards a shadow in the corner, "able to leap-" And then she was gone.

As the museum's security staff rushed in, Andrea Rojas stepped out of the shadows. Suddenly she found her father Bernard rushing over and hugging her.

"Where were you?" he asked her. "I was so worried about you."

"The restroom," she lied.

"There was a group of terrorists," he told her, "and Acrata defeated them."

Andrea feigned a frown. "Sounds like some cheap publicity stunt."

Bernard shook his head in despair. "A shame she didn't leave any graffiti."

"Seems like there's quite enough here already," she said, looking around at the walls. "Anyway, I better be off, need to get some rest, got a busy night planned."

Bernard raised an eyebrow. "Anything or anyone I should know about?"

"Nothing for you to worry about, Papito," she reassured him. "Just painting the town red."

_**The End** _


End file.
